


I'm Gonna

by flinchflower



Series: Slash Me Twice [44]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blindfolds, Collars, M/M, Massage, Orgasm, Paddling, Spanking, Wincest - Freeform, candle wax
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 44: Fantasy.  Sam and Dean in the hotel room.  A CollarFic.  Here lies some spanky porn and dommyness...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Gonna

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not for profit, simply a writing exercise. Herein lies Dean/Sam slash, in an AU timeline where John did not lose his life. John appears in parental context only. Follows in series from previous prompts, but stands alone if preferred.

Sam snaps his phone shut with a snarl, and Dean glances away from the road to look at his brother’s furious face.

“Dude. You backtalk Dad like that again, you’re gonna wind up over his knee when we meet up again.”

“Fuck off, Dean.”

“Or mine, for that matter, if you don’t drop the bullshit. Come on, Sam, it’s spring. It’s a line of thunderstorms, doesn’t have anything to do with the demon, Ash and Dad have confirmed it, your visions don’t have anything to do with the storms. Just relax.”

“I might relax,” Sam snarls, “if we could stay someplace where the electricity stays on.”

Dean doesn’t really have a reply for that, since he feels the same way, he’s just not producing a high-school’s worth of drama over it the way Sam is. The kid’s practically vibrating over there in his seat, and Dean’s not going to be much better if he keeps it up. Sam’s had a series of visions about the last few hunts they’re on, and he’s nervous about the one Dad’s working right now. Dean’s told him to leave off the angst a dozen times in the last day or two, but Sam’s not having anything of it. Another couple of muttered swearwords float to his ears from his baby brother, and he frowns, thinking maybe he shouldn’t have cautioned Sam to watch his mouth with their father, because if John comes roaring up their way to teach Sam a lesson maybe it’ll save Dean the trouble.

He watches the roadsigns, they’ve been driving all day through backwater Colorado, up in the damn mountains. He’s not too keen on it this time of year, in the springtime up here it’s like as not to be snow instead of rain, and the tires on the Impala aren’t up to snow at the moment. Finally he spots a hundred mile sign for a motel, and an hour and a half later they’re pulling up, stars obscured by huge thunderheads as they go to check in.

The routine goes the same way it has for the last two weeks, they manage to find something to eat, get cleaned up and settled in, and bam! Out goes the power. The only thing different tonight is Sam slamming around swearing a blue streak, and Dean finally grabs him, stuffs him into the bed, and gets his face into Sam’s.

“One. More. Word,” Dean threatens, “and you’ll be one sorry little boy. Straighten up by morning or else.” The older boy nearly flinches as not one but two of Dad’s favorite phrases go barreling past his lips, but if it does the job…

Sam kind of slumps, looks at his brother meekly. “Sorry,” he mumbles, sounding contrite enough that Dean’s gonna let it pass. They fall asleep quickly in the darkness, though both of them wake several times to the sound of crashing branches outside, and Sam refuses to let Dean out of bed to make sure the Impala’s okay. They both wake to daylight streaming in the window, and Dean’s first move is to check the car, which is miraculously fine. What is not fine is the motel sign, which is collapsed along with a couple of huge pines across the highway and most of the driveway.

Sam heads to the front office, and Dean realizes he ought to be right behind him a minute too late. By the time he makes it through the office door, Sam is shouting and waving his arms, hollering about downed phone lines and what do you mean, the highway is closed in both directions and they can’t check out and leave?

Dean yanks him around to face him, and snarls. “Room. NOW,” he says, and as Sam pales slightly, and chooses to stamp out of the room radiating yet more attitude as he pulls out his cell phone. It only takes Dean a few minutes to placate the offended desk clerk, and agree to pay a half rate for another couple of nights, even though the chain has a policy stating that the room should technically be comped while the power is out like this. The clerk tells him that it happens often enough that they use CBs to communicate with the highway patrol, and Dean thanks him, lets him know that they’ll have the do-not-disturb sign out for the rest of their stay, not to worry about maid service and yes, bottled water would be great, he’ll be back later to pick that up.

Sam’s stamping around the room waving his phone in the air when Dean yanks the door open.

“No SERVICE!”

“Cell tower probably is down from the storm.”

“I want to talk to DAD!”

Dean calmly stalks up and grabs the lapels of Sam’s flannel. “Collar. NOW.”

At least Sam has the sense to freeze. The sight of the high color draining from Sam’s face is pretty satisfying to Dean as well, and so is the way the kid backs up against the wall. His voice squeaks when he does speak.

“Do I have to?” Dean just snarls. Sam tries to turn away. “I… I need to find it-“

“Stay. Put.” Dean gives him a little shove to emphasize his desire, and opens the bag himself, pulling the collar out within thirty seconds of undoing the side zipper. Stalling isn’t going to help any, Sam, he thinks. He yanks Sam to his knees, buckles on the collar, and then grabs the back of his head, and instead of Sam reciting the rules, he tells them to the boy, just so that there aren’t any mistakes or misconceptions about just which one of them is in charge.

Then he hauls Sam to his feet, marches him over to the corner, and faces the recalcitrant boy into it. “Do. Not. Move.” And with that, Dean takes a seat on the end of the bed and contemplates the situation at hand. Sam’s spent hours in the corner before, and this time shouldn’t be any different, yet as Dean observes, he’s picking up little nuances about the situation that are extremely telling. Sam, who usually behaves himself in this position -especially since Dean trained him to do so in one memorable session where he snapped a long bullwhip across Sam’s naked buttocks every time the boy so much as moved a muscle- this time he’s fidgeting in place, unable to suppress the nervous energy.

He supposes he can’t fault the boy, it has been a couple of rough weeks, and Sam never copes well with the tension building up the way it has been. Sam, he thinks to himself, narrowing his eyes and steepling his fingers, needs a release. And not just any release. He takes his time, drawing the curtains, making sure one of the long burning candles is safe on the dresser, away from the bed where they’ll be. Though on second thought… He lays out a few other items, and stalks up to Sam, keeping his footsteps sharp and clipped. He’s not angry with Sam, so to speak, but the illusion that he might be will be useful. He slips a blindfold over Sam’s eyes, and if he’s not mistaken, Sam is quivering with anxiety. Excellent.

He takes his time undressing the boy, and himself as well, and finally pushes Sam back against the bed, where he’s laid out one of the soft blankets Sam likes to use when he’s got a migraine and his skin feels like it’s on fire. Sam is shaking slightly, and he’s rubbing at the cuffs Dean’s buckled on him – Dean’s betting he’s wishing for the little tabs that will allow him to speak when they’re clipped on, and he’s not going to get them.

He starts at Sam’s sasquatch feet. Simply trailing his fingers up and down the callused flesh, around the toes, heels, and along the softer and more sensitive arch. He hadn’t thought up until that point that it was possible for a foot to flex in a way that conveyed both desire and fear, but Sam’s managing it, all right. He lets himself grin widely, knowing the sound of the rain that’s started on the roof will hide the sound, so long as he doesn’t laugh aloud. His expert fingers massage up Sam’s ankles, every touch gentle, almost delicate – he avoids the delicacy of touch purposefully, making sure that even though he’s gentle, there’s still a hint of firmness, of control every time his fingertips connect with a new area of Sam’s calves, knees, thighs. He avoids the sensitive area between the thighs, instead focusing on the muscles crossing up over Sam’s hips, connecting into his abs, and works his way slowly up Sam’s chest.

He pauses for a moment, and gleefully drizzles candle wax on both of Sam’s nipples, loving the arch of Sam’s back, and the whimpers it causes. He’s plotting with every inch of skin he covers with his knowing caresses, down Sam’s shoulders and arms, and fingertips. He straddles Sam with another grin, without a scrap of guilt for what he’s about to do. He lowers his mouth to Sam’s neck, as his fingers wend their way on a return trip up the boys muscled arms and touch Sam’s collarbone, twines his tongue around with his fingers, feeling Sam’s heart race. Every inch, every fraction of an inch of Sam’s neck, Sam’s face, Sam’s ears is covered with fluttering kisses and sensuous licks as his fingers continue to massage. Sam is shivering again, but now for very different reasons. He slips behind Sam’s ear to the soft skin there, and bites down lightly, and is pleased with the expected results.

Sam moans, writhes, and the word “Please!” explodes from his mouth. Against all the rules. Sam’s too far gone in the sensual pleasure to realize that he’s broken a rule, even though it was politely, and Dean grins, and simply removes himself from Sam, setting up the next items he’ll need at the end of the bed. Sam’s half sitting up, straining for what he can’t see, and Dean clears his throat, hoping to make his voice cold.

“Forgetting something, Sammy?” Indeed. Sam freezes, and Dean’s hard put not to laugh at the look of horror. Dean snaps his fingers, and Sam’s shivering turns into a pitiful blend of arousal and almost fearful anticipation. “Down here, Sam,” he says, knowing that Sam understands that he’s seated on the end of the bed. The boy crawls to him, obedient and hesitating, and Dean feels some of his own relief flood through his veins as he hauls Sam across his lap roughly. Sam’s hands come up to cover his head as Dean tightens his arm around Sam’s waist, and Dean knows he won’t make another sound aside from the whimpers and moans that the forthcoming paddling will elicit from him.

Dean doesn’t make him wait, just starts spanking with his hand, sharp and hard, going for the maximum amount of burn he can create. Sam writhes underneath his hand, and once Sam’s squirming changes Dean stops, lays a hand on the reddened behind. The change is slight, telling Dean that Sam’s moved from pain into some guilt and realization, and that Dean needs to up the ante. Only tonight’s a little different. The spanking’s taken all of Dean’s frustrations from the past couple days of Sam-wrangling away, and he’s left with a desire to see that Sam gets what he needs.

He slicks up his left hand with lube, snakes it around and underneath the boy to circle Sam’s cock, which is still partially aroused from the intimate touching of minutes before, but has flagged under the onslaught of the burn from one of Dean’s experienced hand-spankings. Then he picks up the paddle with his right hand, and brings it cracking down on Sam’s backside, ignoring the startled yell. He feels Sam’s cock rock forward in his hand, sliding in the slick grip, and he knows it’ll work.

He lectures as he paddles, not because he needs to, but because Sam needs to hear his voice, needs to hear the structure Dean’s lecturing him on, needs to know why this is happening. With every hard smack of the paddle, he lets Sam know that he needs to be calmer, more patient, to listen better. When Sam begins sobbing, the sounds tinged with regret and desire, Dean speeds up the pace of the paddling, rocking the now hard cock in his hand back and forth, back and forth, back and forth with the motions of the paddling. He’s not smacking Sam particularly hard now, the boy’s been spanked enough this session that the lightest touch rocks him forward, and Dean’s using the minimum amount of force to bring that motion out of him, until he’s thrusting faster and faster into Dean’s fist. Dean refrains from chuckling, listening to the gasping breaths from Sam change in pitch and tenor, and he lands one final blow on the sensitive crease between Sam’s buttocks and thighs, then throws the paddle aside as Sam comes violently, groaning with the effort. His now free right hand rubs up Sam’s back, soothing him even as his left works the last of the aftershocks along Sam’s spent cock, and the boy lays limp in his lap.

Once Sam catches his breath, Dean’s not surprised to see that the boy is crying softly, and he reverses Sam’s position, cuddles him close in his lap, gets Sam’s head down on his shoulder and simply holds him as the tears wear themselves out. He knows when Sam touches the cuffs again that the kid’s beginning to get frustrated, wanting to speak, and he gently reaches up and releases the collar from the boy’s throat.

“Dean.” Sam doesn’t want to seem to say more, not that Dean’s surprised. He just holds him, until Sam’s practically asleep, and then he removes the cuffs as well, slides both of them up on the bed, snagging a blanket to cover them both up. He’s tired out himself, and as his duty to Sam is discharged, along with fulfilling a fantasy he’s been nurturing, they both need some sleep.


End file.
